


like a heartbeat drives you mad

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All humor is accidental, All mistakes are mine, Bc tbh I'm not even sure how it happened, F/M, Fluff, I will not apologize for this fic, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow is a secret sub pass it on, Just a silly bit of nonsense, Quarantine/Pandemic FIc, References to ABBA, SO, Sansa Stark is Thirsty AF, Stay at Home Orders, Unbeta'd, Vibrators (mentioned), heat - Freeform, that's it that's the whole fic, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26900542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Sansa and Jon are quarantined for a week in her apartment. Her air-conditioning is broken.(Can you see where I am going with this?)[Shameless thirst-fest.]title from dreams by fleetwood macbecause why the fuck not
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 102





	like a heartbeat drives you mad

**Author's Note:**

> So I found this, half-written, in my drafts from... I don't know, time is meaningless, July? Maybe? And I was (finally) in the mood to finish it off. 
> 
> Anyway here's sweaty-Jon/thirsty Sansa visuals for you.

Sansa Stark hadn’t intended to be trapped in her tiny apartment with Jon Snow, but she was certainly starting to see the upsides.

Sure, the planet was literally on fire, her apartment’s air conditioning had already been barely spluttering along and had finally kicked the bucket the week before, a pandemic was raging and everything seemed, honestly, pretty dismal - but Jon Snow was laying on the floor of her kitchen in the smallest shorts she’d ever seen and no shirt, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes in a way that lengthened the corded muscles of his arms, glistening with sweat. 

So, you know, there was at least one upside, Sansa thought, fanning herself with one of Arya’s old kickboxing workout plans as she blatantly ogled the half-naked man, hanging over the back of the couch as if at a wildlife exhibit and she was the overenthusiastic third-grader there to see the monkeys.

A drop of sweat ran down the curve of his neck and she decidedly, absolutely, did not groan at the sight.

(It had been four days of this exquisite torture and honestly, she wasn’t sure how much longer she was going to survive if it kept on like this).

Jon had had the questionably bad luck to be over helping Sansa assemble furniture for her new apartment when the city had gone on lockdown for poor air quality due to the raging fires. They had been in the depths of assembling a particularly tricky bookshelf when their mobiles had buzzed with that alarming cadence they had grown altogether too used to in these last months.

STAY AT HOME ORDER FOR: AIR QUALITY.  
STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Jon’s face had been consumed with immediate horror– which had been, you know, _oh_ so flattering, that Jon was literally _horrified_ at the idea of being in an enclosed space with her – and he had avoided her eyes as he shrugged with obviously feigned nonchalance and said, “well, it’s a good thing we set up your guest bed this morning.”

Sansa had considered spitefully disassembling it in the wee hours of the morning, when she lay awake in her bed, knowing with absolute certainty that Jon was sleeping on the other side of the wall, that he slept basically in the nude… she groaned. He was here because of a government mandate, and burning the bedframe would not help her problems, but rather likely worsen the air quality.

Oh, _cursed_ practicality.

That had been Monday.

Tuesday, he had made breakfast for the both of them – coffee and those egg things her mother used to make, nestled carefully inside toast and cooked to perfection – before calling into work and figuring out what he could do from his laptop in her apartment, having already sent Ghost to Sam & Gilly’s place the day before.

She had taken one look at breakfast, another at Jon pushing his reading glasses up his nose as he carefully adjusted his laptop on her faux-marble kitchen table that was meant to hold approximately two champagne glasses at the most, and she had immediately retreated to the safety of a brisk shower.

(Said shower may have also been an excuse to try out a new vibrator that she’d been planning on trying out the night before – if Jon hadn’t been there – but he _had_ been there, and she heard him turning over and breathing and once, faintly snoring – so there was no way she could have been quiet enough that he wouldn’t have heard her. No way she would have been able to keep herself from calling out his name).

(She wasn’t able to keep silent in the shower, either, but at the very least, she was at the opposite end of the apartment, biting her lip under loud water and with music conveniently blasting from her phone). 

But by Friday, things were getting desperate. They had both done all the work they can, eaten all of the things that don’t sound miserable in the heat, laid in front of her over-large TV and watched all of the possible Netflix movies they can agree on (to be fair, there were only two, Indiana Jones and Clueless), but by now, on a dreary, golden-lit Friday afternoon, they were out of things to do.

Jon watched the credits roll, sighed, stood up, and yanked his shirt over his head. Sansa’s eyes cut quickly back to the TV as she pretended not to admire the lean muscles down his back.

“Well, I’m going to go lay on The Floor.” It was arguably the coolest spot in the apartment, but only one person could fit in her small kitchen, so they traded off.

Sansa didn’t mind. Jon always threw his arm above his head – rather dramatically – and she could perch on the couch in her sports bra and trendy running shorts she bought off of Instagram and ogle him as she pretended to scroll through her phone, shamelessly, tirelessly, fanning herself and trying to pretend the heat wasn’t building up inside and that she wasn’t subtly rubbing her thighs together in a way that did not ease the tension, but kept it buzzing at this low, pleasantly torturous thrum.

It may have been why she almost didn’t hear him.

\---

It had been an unreasonably terrible week. Jon would know – Jon, the _king_ of angsty brooding over bad weeks – of which he has had _many_ in his lifetime – that this week, it took the cake.

Sure, he had agreed to help assemble Sansa’s furniture in her new apartment without knowing that her AC was out and so, naturally, she would be dancing around to ABBA in those itty-bitty shorts, and the sports bra excusing itself as a shirt, her hair tied up off of her neck, and her long legs just fucking _taunting_ him.

Sure, he had agreed to assemble more furniture after the guest bed had come together quickly, after the bookshelf had just seemed to fall together, after her new coffee table just needed a few turns with a wrench – anything to keep those legs in his periphery.

He had known, even then, he would be in trouble, somehow, but had pictured the trouble more as a quenchable lust that could be fixed with a quick (long, intense, heady, absurdly emotional) wank back at his apartment, as soon as he could tear himself away.

Then, the alarm had sounded and he wanted to smack himself on the forehead. He was such an idiot – gorging himself on the essence of Sansa Stark had been a guilty pleasure with an _end date_ , and now, they were stuck together. Could he really be blamed for the look on his face when it sounded, shrill and piercing and like a wake-up call that he could never have her, that she was not _for_ broody boys like him, that she wasn’t for anyone, really, but also definitely, one-hundred-percent, not for him?

(She didn’t even want him like that, a small voice in the back of his head noted plaintively).

Listen, Jon prided himself on his self-restraint but it was Friday and he was about to implode from the amount of energy it had taken to not a) constantly have a hard-on, b) ask Sansa politely if he could fuck her into her mattress – he scoffed at the mere idea, or c) take matters into his own hands in her sturdy guest bed on the other side of what had to be the _thinnest_ wall known to man.

(He could hear her shift, he could hear her kick off the covers in the middle of the night, and once, he heard her moan through the wall. It had been enough for Jon to bury his face under the pillows and groan, helplessly). 

And now, laying on the coldest surface in the apartment, arm thrown listlessly over his forehead, Jon still felt as though his skin was humming with heat, his blood pulsing with desire, and he wondered if some kind god would just smite him where he lay, to give him some much needed relief.

Jon waited.

And waited.

And remained, unfortunately, alive, on Sansa Stark’s kitchen floor, trying to think calming thoughts after having spent far too long on that couch with her damnably long legs curled up underneath her.

Some gods they were, he snorted, raising his arm to get a glimpse of Sansa as she stood and stretched at the side of the couch, shorts riding up and uncovering a delicious glimpse of her ass, the faint sheen of sweat making her glow in the afternoon light.

Jon let his arm fall back onto his face, and muttered, “I can’t do this anymore,” in traditional dramatic fashion.

If he had been smart, he would have noticed a sudden, chilling silence in the flat.

If he had been listening instead of wallowing, he may have noticed the sound of angry footsteps headed his way before delicate toes nudged underneath his ribs in a less-than-friendly manner.

As it was, he was startled from his woeful brooding by Sansa’s sharp voice: “Can’t do _what_ any more?” voice higher in pitch than he’d ever heard it.

Oh, _shit_.

Jon slowly raised his arm from over his head, swallowing heavily as he obviously debated the merits of telling the truth to his for-the-week roommate.

Sansa crossed her arms and glared down at him, and he tried very, very hard to ignore the extraordinarily flattering view of her from the floor. A brief fantasy flickered in his mind – namely, the redhead settling her lovely long legs on either side of his face – before he swallowed hard and focused on the problem at hand.

“I’m really hot?” he ventured, attempting to think of decidedly unsexy things. (Dead penguins. Ned Stark glaring at him after he and Theon objectively got Robb absolutely toasted before high school graduation. Chili peppers. Ghost draping his entire body weight on Jon’s face and then farting.)

Sansa’s tilted head and unrelenting glare told Jon that no, she wasn’t buying it (though, of course, Sansa thought to herself that it was objectively a fact that he was hot, on several levels – temperature, appearance, aesthetic, etc etc).

“I really want to go outside?”

Jon really didn’t understand why people (Arya) claimed they couldn’t read Sansa. Her face was an open book. For example, right now her face was saying, “do you think I’m an _idiot_ Jonathan Marie Snow? Do you?” Raised brows, pursed kissable mouth and all.

Jon, in fact, did not believe she was an idiot.

That title was reserved especially for him.

At this moment, and all other moments before this one.

_Fuck._

Jon sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position against her refrigerator, crossing his arms over his knees.

“I, uh – “ he cleared his throat, nervously, refusing to look up past the level of her absurdly charming kneecaps. (Who has cute knees? He had thought it was some biological impossibility but, alas, he was proven wrong, yet again, by Sansa Stark and her numerous, many attractive qualities). “I think you’re hot,” he said, sadly, sure that this was the end of their friendship, that he’d have to try to catch a cab in this abysmal weather, that he’d never be invited to the three-course brunch-fest that was a regular Sunday morning at the Starks. God, he would miss those little crabby-potato-egg things. 

Blessed, stupid Jon – so busy pouting he missed Sansa’s sharp inhale, and the sudden tension in her legs.

\---

Honest to god, what was _wrong_ with her? Jon admitted he thinks she’s attractive in the most woebegone manner – which, really, Jon, _so_ rude – and she immediately wanted to squirm her way into his lap and kiss him senseless.

Maybe he didn’t believe she was an idiot, but god, maybe she was in love with one.

Wait, what?

…

Nope. She shoved that one down into the recesses of her brain. She could deal with that _later_.

Sansa shook herself, slightly, focusing on the problem at hand: namely, Jon’s deliciously pouty lips that were staring at her – knees, was it? Why? She rolled her eyes, and decided it was best that they continue from the point of honesty he’d previously established.

So, she dropped to her knees in front of him, cradled his face in her hands, murmured, “God, you’re so _stupid_ ,” and did what she’d been wanting to do for ages, really – she kissed him soundly.

Thoroughly.

 _Heatedly_.

Until she took a moment to inhale and realized that, at some point, he had stretched her back across the cold tile floor, that one of his hands was up her crop top, the other behind her head, his lips were tracking hot kisses down the column of her neck, his hips were bracketing her own and -

(It was better than her filthiest of fantasies, by far, and they weren’t even _naked_ yet)

\- and there was this buzzing noise in the background that kept _distracting_ her from her perfect enjoyment of his muscled, to-be-fair mostly-naked body stretched out atop her own.

It sounded like –

“Oy,” she said, pulling Jon’s head back by the hair – and _very_ much enjoying the look in his eyes as he did so. “Is that your phone?”

By the look on Jon’s face, he’d completely forgotten that phones were a thing that existed on this planet. The word took a moment to sink into his consciousness. “Phone?”

“Yes, Jon, that buzzing, is that your phone?“ Sansa watched as he surfaced from their lust-filled make-out session on her kitchen floor.

“Hmm, maybe,” he said, pulling his hand out from her bra and reaching up to the counter for his phone, dark gaze still fixed on her swollen lips. He silenced the phone with a quick gesture, but somehow dragged his gaze to look at the message – and froze, a strange expression on his face that she couldn’t quite interpret.

“What?” she said, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I can leave,” he said, quietly, half to himself.

“Excuse me?” Sansa could feel her voice doing that climbing thing again, but really, did she have a choice? Why did she _like_ him??

Jon’s eyes snapped back to hers, and he dropped his phone as if it were scalding him. “I mean, uh, not that I want to! It was just a message saying that the stay-at-home order was lifted.”

Sansa slumped back down on the floor. “Oh,” she said, staring at the ceiling to avoid his eyes. Well, this hurt more than she thought it would. Of _course_ he was only kissing her because she was here and he thought she was hot, but that wasn’t enough, was it? Ugh, now _she_ wanted to throw her arm dramatically over her face and groan.

His grey eyes turned serious. “Do you want me to go? I’ve been here for a while and-“

“Well, sure, if you want to go, just go,” she retorted, feeling only a little bit hurt and a lot vulnerable. Hmm, never knew her ceiling had a crack in it there. Shaped kind-of like Rickon’s skateboard tattoo that no one knew about – except everyone.

“I –“ he paused, already half kneeling in mindless obedience (her mind jumped to 45 different things she'd like to order him to do, only 20 of which were on his knees, and she had to _focus_ to listen to what he said next). “Do you want me to go?”

“Sure, fine,” she shrugged, the picture of nonchalance – an image that was ruined by her flushed cheeks, her staccato heartbeat, her mussed hair, still not looking at him.

Jon narrowed his eyes, before he lay back down on top of Sansa, cradling her face in his hand until she looked at him, finally. He repeated his question, emphasizing each word as he looked into her blue eyes: “Do. You. Want. Me. To. Go.”

“Are you an idiot? Of _course not_ ,” she blurted out, before flushing ruby red in embarrassment.

Jon grinned, wickedly, before bringing his lips to her ear. “Then ask me to stay,” he murmured, delighting in the shiver that cascaded through her body at the touch of his lips at that spot behind her ear.

(He felt like he could spend forever learning her).

Sansa inhaled sharply, wrapping her arms around his neck, before whispering: “No.”

“No?”

Sansa smirked up at him, eyes dancing in amusement. “Let’s go to _your_ apartment,” she said. “ _You_ have air-conditioning.”

Jon laughed shortly, before standing and offering her a hand, unable to resist planting a firm kiss on her lips before she truly got her feet under her. “Good point.”

“And then, maybe-“ Sansa broke off, distracted by the circles he was rubbing on the back of her hand, and the way he was looking at her with unmistakable fondness. It was a look he had shot her before, a half-smirk on his lips, eyes soft and focused on her - but one she had never known how to interpret. How long had he been looking at her like that? And how long had she been looking back? It felt like - 

“Can I take you on a date?” he asked, interrupting her reverie, and watched a smile bloom on her face as she nodded.

\---

TWO WEEKS LATER

They’d retreated to his apartment after a stellar third-date at a local winery – sitting outside as the sunset, at a table so far away from the others it felt (almost) appropriate to sneak in some casual groping that left them both breathless and flushed and all too ready to get home – and their phones started buzzing as they kissed fiercely, Jon pressed up against his own front door as Sansa's hands made quick work of his jeans.

STAY AT HOME ORDER FOR: ZOMBIES.  
STAY INSIDE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

It was a testament to the year it had been that they looked at each other in disbelief, dead-bolted the door, and started racing for the bedroom, losing clothes as they made their way down the hallway, kissing and laughing all the way.

**Author's Note:**

> If this entire time, you were like, "okay, but where are they... exactly? King's Landing? Winterfell seems like it wouldn't be that hot? Zombies seem improbable in any universe??" - Listen, I don't know. I put exactly zero thought into it. Choose your own location on this adventure. 
> 
> As always, you can come fangirl with me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jolieunfiltrd) about whatever. 
> 
> Sending you all the best of vibes in what has to be one of the weirdest possible timelines. <3


End file.
